Classic Poem

There is one secret moment that reveals
Pulse, heart beat, the quick drawn breath of the mind;
Then it is past, and no trace left behind.

It may be one note in a voice that lingers over a name,
But is gone when the voice is silenced.
Recalled, it will not be the same.

No, you will be forgotten, I shall be forgotten,
Except in words we put together that remain.
But the great will be remembered, and in moments that make plain

Their passion. Not alone
The vast symphony, the large impressive canvas,
The piled eloquence of stone.

Brahms, in one passage of heart searching melody,
Emily Dickinson in " the accent of a coming foot . . . "
The fragment of some wind-blown Victory.

And you Vincent, in your Field of Grass,
Each blade a knife edge, each color a spear,
Your secret revealed, naked, breath-takingly clear,
Before the casual unseeing eyes that pass, and pass . . .